Or so the honking, hoots and hollers and constant one overs I get in the street might suggest. Jeez. It's either some people are gross or it's like fucking Bai Ling is walking the streets. Be subtle, kind gentleman! Wanting one's sex does not warrant you to be a pervert!
Anyway, commencing grown up age totally confuses me. I'm like half a grown up right now (and Samantha Baker would totes agree).
Things I have: HS diploma, brown hair, insightful prose, all of Mariah Carey's albums committed to memory. Things I don't have: Money, aspirations. Things I want: Money, aspirations....Emile Hirsch semi-nude in a bubble bath.
I say this because at the current time, I have not applied to any colleges or have any idea whatsoever what Mona Edward Lopez wants to be as a grown up. Being a grown up would imply some form of career or what have you and an assessment test told me once that I should be interior designer.
I say that's a bunch of tripe because I can't even pimp out my own fucking room (i'm looking at my pigsty right now and I can safely say it's like Flavor Flav, Laura Ashley, the must-go sale at Pier 1, a garbage disposal and the dirty pile at the cleaners threw up in here). Imagine what I'd end up doing to some poor gullible yuppie's foyer, telling him that the aluminum walls and leopard carpet are inspired by "Jean Paul Gaultier's 86 Fall/Winter collection meets Grecian drug den."
I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I recieved a rather touching email from my junior year English III teacher at my previous school. She said that she didn't know if in a weeks time I would be graduating or not (let's put it this way-- I've done my share of bellyflopping) but whatever the matter, I should seriously consider becoming a writer.
STFU, Ms. Lewicki. For reals? Like a real writer person? Will anyone care if all my lewd penis jokes can't actually be printed? (I didn't earn myself the nickname Texas Crude for no reason)
I wrote a short story in that class once, at her asking--I had a place as columnist in the school's rag, I might as well have made myself useful. She served me with extra credit and a swift and hard pat on the back for it. And even the squawky uptight shadow teacher, who shot me bitchface once when I suggested that the reason I couldn't read her chicken scratch comments on my AP essays was because she probably wrote with her feet, lauded my somewhat lazy but successful accomplishment.
She said that my "witty prose" will take me places. Like where, the poorhouse? Isn't the print industry kind of a dying field? It's not paying handsomely these days and considering i've lived in the ghetto, the most horrendously crime filled and HEINOUSLY ugly part of town, I gots to live lavishly, you know?
I'd like to share a private jet with Jay-Z and Beyowulf Beyonce. We would share Belvedere and toss caviar crackers into each other's mouth and i'll make a comment about that line in "Big Pimpin'" where he goes, "Shit, I part with nothing/Y'all be frontin'/Me give my heart to a woman/Not for nothin', never happen/I be forever mackin'" and tell him he happily ate his words. Jay-Z will giggle and Bee will shoot me a look like she wants to rip my weave out.
I kid, I kid. I don't even have a weave.
Hey, I actually take that recommendation seriously but if this whole being the female Truman Capote don't never work out, i'll always be able to marry into money and transform myself into my personal idol.
Cuz I love ya, Mimoo!
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